Page 52 of The Lost Lord
“I am accustomed to doing this much myself. I may need your assistance tying my cravat. It has been some time since I required one. The American style is less formal.” Particularly when one worked the docks on a casual basis. Gregory had cast a quick glance at Richard’s calloused hands but said nothing. With the falls of his trousers fastened, Richard reached for the shirt Gregory had laid out for him and caught sight of himself in the mirror. The man reflected somberly there looked more like Old Richard than ever. Louche. Arrogant.
HehatedOld Richard. He had been a terrible son. He’d killed his father.
No amount of forgiveness from Edward could change those bare facts. His father and mother, being dead, were in no position to forgive him the many excessive trespasses of his youth. Worse, they had died knowing him as a selfish, grasping, feckless lout. There was nothing he could do to repair the damage.
All he knew was that his selfishness had led him to Lizzie and then to Miriam. He’d gone along with Lizzie’s plan with the best of intentions but there was no denying the sordid underpinnings of their beginning.
Once he’d kissed Miriam beneath the stars on a moonlit island, Richard had wanted her any way he could get her. He still did. But he would never win her trust if he remained in his room contemplating his wardrobe all day, so Richard stuck his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. The fabric pulled tight over his biceps. Richard peered at the fabric in frustration. Surely, he wasn’t that much more muscled than he’d been a scant two years ago. But Gregory strained to close the shirt studs strained to close over his chest.
Gregory had been right. The waistcoat was a mistake. The color clashed subtly with the undertones in his jacket. Worse, it bagged around his midsection. Richard regarded himself in the mirror with horrified resignation. He had never been fat, but he’d been soft in that way of English aristocrats who sneered at physical labor. His body had a different shape, now.
Richard discarded the offending garment and chose a neutral buff version instead. It blended with his trousers so that he resembled a sapling with a coat draped over its branches. He tried another, deep blue with silver threads, that added two stone to his physique.
“Nothing fits,” Richard grumbled to no one. “I am the same person I was upon leaving England, confound it. Why is it all so different?”
In a fit of temper, he tossed the waistcoats into an untidy pile. He stood back to glower at his handiwork.
It wasn’t true. His time awayhadchanged him. A thrill of fear touched his neck like ice. Richard was different in ways he’d only begun to suspect.
No one had ever told him that leaving his homeland had meant he’d never be able to return to what he’d been.
* * *
“Wouldyou and Mrs. Kent would like to visit museums today?” Harper invited over breakfast the next morning. Miriam observed her potential sister-in-law pick at her food. Thus far, Lady Briarcliff’s stomach had disagreed with kippers—a perfectly reasonable stance which Miriam agreed with—coddled eggs, and hot chocolate. Rolls with preserves appeared to be the lone foodstuff she could manage, washed down with weak tea made tepid with a splash of milk. In spite of her discomfort, the lady was trying her best to be an amiable and helpful hostess.
“That would be delightful. Thank you.” Miriam glanced at her companion and received a quick nod of approval.
Yesterday, Miriam had arrived here expecting to despise everyone in this household as an extension of Richard. Yet Harper, as the countess insisted upon using her given name, had proved to be gentle and courteous. The staff had been solicitous to Mrs. Kent, and even the imposing earl had been generous and kind. A hot bath, a good night of sleep in a comfortable bed, and a hearty breakfast—minus the flayed pickled herring—had done wonders to improve Miriam’s outlook. Still, nothing had fundamentally changed. She was still married to a man whose sole aim had been to cheat her out of her fortune. Richard had been bad enough to be banished from his country by these lovely people.
Her father had been right. Naive fool that she was, Harper had chosen exactly the wrong friend and the worst English lord to fall in love with. She was disabused of that notion now, though. What must Harper think? It required no imagination to discern she and Richard were not acting like the happy soon-to-be-wedded couple they were supposed to be.
“Won’t you accompany us?” asked Miriam, then gasped at her own thoughtlessness. “Oh, of course you wouldn’t. Unless you’d like to. I imagine fresh air is good for the child.”
“Or children,” Harper laughed, patting the lump of her belly. “I have been to the museums on countless occasions of late. Thank you for asking. I find myself restless. Were it not for the fact that ladies in my condition are not welcome in public, I would be delighted to join in the fun. As it stands, however, I must catch up on correspondence. I don’t suppose you have any interest in attending a ball. The Season won’t be in full swing for several weeks, but I can accept invitations on your behalf. Viola will accompany you.”
Miriam glanced at Mrs. Kent.
“It’s your decision, dear.”
“Then, yes. I would like that very much.”
“Better you than me,” Harper laughed. “If it were up to me, I’d have returned to the countryside weeks ago. London society holds little appeal for me. Once this litter of pups is out, I intend to return to Briarcliff as soon as I am able.” Again, she patted her belly affectionately. The gesture gave Miriam a squirm of jealousy. It was a gross injustice that Lizzie was to have a baby when Miriam was never going to have the opportunity. Unless she could forgive Richard. But how could she, when she still she had to pry the truth out of him?
Chapter 23
“Now that you and your bride settled in, I would like to discuss your future. Is now a good time?” Edward asked two days after their arrival. He had returned from a morning spent in Parliament and was fully dressed in a simple, severely tailored jacket. The sartorial tables had turned. Once, it had been Edward who stood before him in ill-fitting clothing. Now, it was Richard’s turn to feel out of place for his inferior garb.
“Certainly.” Richard agreed, but the hairs on the backs of his arms and neck rose. He was going stir-crazy cooped up here in the house, yet he hardly dared to leave. The temptation of his old life lay just beyond the limestone walls of the newly refurbished townhouse. There were old friends with whom to reacquaint himself. Richard was torn between hoping they would deign to speak to him and wishing they’d snub him when they inevitably met. Taking a single trip down memory lane might undermine his determination not to drink.
Then again, so might his boredom. Today, Miriam and Mrs. Kent had gone out to see a museum with Harper’s sister, Viola, and her lover, Lord Darby.
Cloistered in the hush of Edward’s study Richard was gripped by the need to taste the sweet burn of liquor. His foot jiggled involuntarily. His brother’s gaze caught on the misbehaving limb, and Richard quelled the motion.
“I have petitioned the King to create a viscountcy for you in recognition for our father and uncle’s services in the Wars,” Edward began.
Richard waited. His brother looked at him expectantly. He supposed this was Edward’s idea of an explanation. “Why me? I did nothing during to facilitate our victory. I was but a boy.”
“I feel I owe it to you.” Edward cleared his throat. “I apologize for the harshness with which I banned you from England.”
